Wondering if I still look like a quiet
port at midnight or if I am perhaps a little
more dangerous now. The fence, humming his
own tuneless melody and some travelling girl’s
belly full up on vegetables and fish. How much
for a room tonight, can you make beer flow
from the taps? I see the lampshade over
the moon, his cigarette dangling. I do not
understand why they put us on a world that can
not stop turning and expects us to stay so very
still. The children of the village are taking a hot
bath; their shoulder blades wet knowing
mother will be here soon. I cannot reach my own;
damp from the journey, and this is how it gets
being so old and so alone, nothing but a car of
unwritten poetry and sunflower seeds for company.
.
Blossom Hibbert
Picture Rupert Loydell